The Painter and the Warlord
by Liva Wilborg
Summary: Warning: Yaoi! Leonardo/Cesare – Cesare's point of view. The world indeed needs more Leo/Cesare. :D Leonardo becomes Cesare's Chief Engineer. Enter: threats, composure, political maneuvering, a public execution and sex!
1. Chapter 1 - Dog

**_The Painter and the Warlord - By Liva Wilborg_**

**Dog**

There are two ways to gauge a man's true heart. By examining his anger. Or by examining his fear.

I keep to the shadows of the gate-house, holding the leash tight. The dog begins to growl, showing his strong, sharp teeth, as the carriage comes to a halt in the courtyard of the fortress, the horses champing their bits and shaking their heads, fatigued after the long journey through rough terrain in the baking afternoon sun.

This little exercise always brings a childish smile to my lips. Whenever a new man enters my service, I send a dog at him. Fierce and loyal and ferocious, great muscles rippling under sleek, black fur, it tears out of the gate towards them as they set foot on the ground. Most men flee to the safety of the carriage, though some stand still in disbelief and fear. One pulled a weapon and defended himself. Most have to deal with deep bite wounds, infecting and crippling. I apologize afterwards, of course. And tell them I will punish the keeper of the dogs for letting the beast escape.

The carriage door opens. He is nothing like the image I saw in my mind's eye when I heard of him. A man in his forties, I was told. Engineer and scholar by reputation; a painter by trade, to make it all the more absurd.

He sent me a map. The city unfurled in all its splendour as the courier put the innocent piece of paper on the table before me. It was exhilarating. As I picked it up, studying the intricacy of narrow streets and broad thoroughfares, recognising the plaza before the church, the market place, the roads leading up to the gates in the city walls I felt as though I held the very city itself in my hands. I immediately sent for him.

I still expect him to be a fattish slob in an expensive robe, showing off his urban scholarly inclination with a long beard, gold chains across his chest and a silly hat. Pudgy fingers littered with rings.

The man who jumps from the wagon is slender, agile, his back straight. He carries himself with a sort of elegance and self reliance I could easily see as a challenge. I try to convince myself that he is a servant, accompanying the master I have employed, but nobody else gets out, and from my vantage point in the shadows, I can see into the carriage. He is the only passenger. Not counting the crates and boxes stuffed into the wagon.

The simple pants and doublet he wears are made of expensive fabric, but practical nonetheless. His shirt sleeves are rolled up in the heat of the afternoon. Short, light hair is flying about his clean-shaven face. He holds his hat in his hand along with a sketch book, loose papers stuffed into the binding. A few seconds from now, I'm confident, the papers will scatter about the courtyard when I release the beast, barely held in check. The dog is pulling its leash, eager for the hunt. I smile at him and let him go.

He almost seems to fly from my hand, the heavy leather leash trailing after him. My attention is on the man by the wagon as he whirls around at the growling sound, staring at the demon approaching.

And then the demon betrays me. I would laugh if I wasn't suddenly struck dumb by the ridiculous spectacle before me.

He stands still. Calm. Staring at the dog. Pointing at the ground in front of him imperiously. And the beast almost falls over its own legs, scrambling in mid-run to stop at all costs. Dragging its bum across the flagstones and gravel of the courtyard, the stupid dog slides to a sitting halt in front of my new employee. Its tongue flaps out idiotically and its clipped tail-end wags as he crouches, putting the sketchbook and hat on the ground, and ruffles the beast's fur appreciatively. It barks happily and is silenced by his hand on its snout. He even has the audacity to laugh at it, putting his face close to the once ferocious maw, stroking the fur of the neck and patting the muscular shoulders.

"Where is your master?" Leonardo asks the dog as I approach the cursed pair, anger building quietly.

"Right in front of the dog, apparently..." I comment. I will have to tell him I'm happy he's unhurt. It galls me!

I am going to shoot that treacherous mutt!

_Next Chapter - Breakfast_


	2. Chapter 2 - Breakfast

******_The Painter and the Warlord - By Liva Wilborg_**

**Breakfast**

"Where is that damned engineer! Did you tell him to hurry!" I yell at the servant. I appreciate punctuality.

"I'm sorry, Lord." comes the reply, and the man does indeed look sorry as I stare down at him. A soft nudge to the horse's flank makes the chestnut stallion dance a few steps closer and the servant jumps backwards. "He said to tell you he will be here... in an hour; when he's had his breakfast."

"An hour!"

"Yes, Lord."

"Out of my way!" I dig my heels in and the horse carries me back into the fortress at speed as the morning sun lifts its face above the horizon. There was a chill in the air a moment ago, but Leonardo's defiance dispels it in my body as the anger flares. Who is he to defy me?

It's been almost a month since he came to work for me. I have yet to find a subject he is ignorant about and not for lack of trying. There is a quiet, almost shy, quality to him which annoys me at times. But also something intense in the way he watches the world. When he looks at me it feels like he is committing every detail of my being to memory. There is something slightly unnerving about this silent study. Evaluating scrutiny. But I let him. Though I'm not certain why.

The carpenters and metal smiths I have put him in charge of, love him. Somehow he had managed to involve them in a side project of trying to optimise the explosive yield of gunpowder. I found them all roaring with laughter a few weeks ago as they were taking a break, shooting at a straw puppet with a tiny cannon they had cast. These little breaks he creates somehow make the team's productivity soar and I feel confident I will have my machinery on time. Probably even before the time agreed upon. I'm not going to let him go after that. I am, however, not going to take any insolence from him either. When I call him, I expect him to answer to it immediately.

I make my way, fuming, to his room. Guards and servants wisely give me a wide berth. I pound once on the door before throwing it open forcefully. He is sitting in there, by the paper-strewn table, his back turned. He looks as though he just got out of bed. Although he has his pants on, his feet are bare on the soft, luxurious rugs and his sleeping-shirt hangs loose around him. His hair sticks out in unruly tufts.

He doesn't turn as I barge in. He has been lifting a mug to his lips, but the hand stops midway, knuckles turn white and his back stiffens.

"Maybe I haven't made it clear to you how I want things, but I will now." I tell his back. "When I call on you because I wish to inspect your progress, you-"

He slams the mug down, sloshing hot coffee on the table: "Tell me, Your Grace..." he interrupts pointedly, stopping me in mid sentence. "When did you have breakfast? About an hour ago?" He rises and faces me, and every trace of shyness is gone. "Well, just over an hour ago I went to bed after a long night of work. For you! Now..." He approaches me, anger makes his eyes flash and though there is no doubt that I could take him if it came to blows, I find myself impressed by the sudden display of raw authority. It suits him, the anger.

"...The mighty Borgias might not need sleep, but I do! And if you want me to accompany you anywhere, you will give me more than a minute's warning from now on. I'm a paid member of your staff, not a slave and not a soldier."

"How dare you speak to me like that, you bastard son of a peasant! I ought to throw you out right now and keep you blasted drawings." I shout. And then he gives a dismissive laugh: "Do you think I would give the man most famous for his duplicity the real designs? You can keep the papers; they are worthless without my assistance. And though you might be able to find someone who can eventually make my inventions work, you certainly cannot do it before the spring campaign begins!"

He is furious. The beautiful anger has been unfolding before me and I have no doubt that he is telling me the truth. And suddenly I find that I respect him. It's odd. He has no family name, no noble lineage to lean on and only one friend who would, perhaps, go to war on his account should he come to harm. All he does is his own merit.

This deception of his is an elegant little move and standing his ground before my anger is impressive; I might just as soon imprison him, have him beaten until he revealed every secret he might cling to, remove him from the ranks of the living as I saw fit. He knows this and yet he stands there, obnoxiously rebellious.

The smile that suddenly jumps to my lips is a surprise to me as much as it appears to be to him. My anger rapidly fades, though his is still smouldering attractively like the embers in the fireplace.

"Meet me in the courtyard in an hour." I tell him and he bows his head in acknowledgement, though I feel the intensity of his stare follow me out of the room.

_Next Chapter - Silence_


	3. Chapter 3 - Silence

******_The Painter and the Warlord - By Liva Wilborg_**

**Silence**

"...Like Trismegistus' Living God?" I ask and gesture questioningly with the glass carafe.

"Something like that." He nods, smiling, and tilts his cup towards me as I pour the wine. I normally only extend this gesture to close family or people I'm about to kill. But somehow he has worked his way into my existence, demanding the right to be treated as an equal.

I've given it some thought. To why I have accepted this. Maybe because it seems to be for other reasons than anyone else who has ever tried the same. He seems unconcerned with gaining my favour to make any use of it. And more puzzling, he seems to do the same with almost anyone, no matter their status. He is a still a mystery to me even though he has been in my service for more than three months now.

We often take our evening meal together. The winter storm outside the windows gain in strength, rattling the panes behind the curtains. An early snow began to fall this afternoon and in my mind that makes sharing time with him, warmth and conversation, all the more enjoyable.

I have been watching him since he came here. There is something about him that defies logic. A man his age should be married, settled, buried in his books and impressed at himself, nursing his important contacts. There are many silvery white hairs hidden next to the blond ones but somehow the age doesn't show to his detriment. The lines on his face give his expression life and seem to steal nothing.

I have begun to rethink a lot of old and new knowledge I have and to seek new subjects to test him with. I'm hoping to find something he knows nothing about. Medicine, cavalry placements, governing strategies, history, even ditch digging has been something he easily converses on and adds to. I have no reason to suspect that he hasn't figured my game out but he seems to take pleasure in it as much as I do.

"I have to admit, I doubt if any Trismegistus ever actually existed." I comment.

"The Hermetica's provenance might be somewhat poorly established; true." he says. "But I can hardly fault anything for its origins when the words are sound."

I can't help but grin. An unsurprising comment from the illegitimate son of a peasant girl and a petty, rural notary.

"But to return to the earlier subject..." he says, a small smile making lines at his eyes: "I _do_ admire Ficino's work. ...Perhaps except his translations of Plato." he adds as an afterthought.

"Really? Why is that?" I ask.

He shrugs: "It seems to me that he takes some interpretative freedoms with the originals on occasion. I find that it pushes the some of the finer points out of perspective."

"Such as?"

The grin he sends me is new. Seems like it has pounced him without conscious permission. It turns into a smile and he looks away as though gathering his thoughts. "Well, I assume you are familiar with 'Symposion'?" he asks. I nod and something about his demeanour makes me smile. I know the text, and remembering it also brings back memories of endless, unwanted childhood hours of tuition in classical languages and literature that has yet to be useful to me.

"Do you remember the part where Alcibiades speaks of his... past experience with Socrates?"

Something dawns on me, a vague memory I never gave any thought jumps to the forefront. I remember my tutor telling me that certain parts of the texts were unimportant. The man would hit my fingers with a stick when I did something he disliked, and he did that when he found me with a full version of the text once. I never gave a damn why; but I do remember the triumph when I was big enough to take the stick from him and break it across his face.

"I never read the text that carefully, I'm afraid." I tell him. "I never had cause to recall what the individual speakers said."

"Well..." He tilts his head a little and I can see that he considers this both funny and serious. "Alcibiades shows up to the party... rather drunk and tells about how he tried to learn from Socrates and figured it would be easiest if he slept with him. He tried to seduce him but though they ended up sleeping under the same cape, Socrates didn't touch him."

I stare at him, taken aback, forcefully realising why my tutor would edit my school texts. "Wait..." I find myself saying: "How... How is that a crime to remove from the modern translations?"

"In an examination of love and virtue and the good?" he asks, as though the point I'm missing is obvious. "It's important in understanding Socrates' virtue. That he is so great a man that he denied himself pleasure offered freely from a beautiful youth in the belief that the young man would benefit more from abstinence. That is virtuous. To deny yourself something desirable in order for another to benefit. And it makes Socrates a man who lives by the tenets he teaches." He shakes his head: "Ficino has removed all these kinds of details and the philosophy and characterisation suffers for it."

I stare at him. Then a laugh bubbles to the surface and I put my glass down: "It must be the wine!" I state.

"For you or for me?" he asks, laughing.

"Me. It makes sense. What you say makes sense. Not that I really have an opinion on this, mind you." I tell him quickly. "Not really. I never had any use for philosophy."

"Use?" He grins: "Philosophy is quite useless. It's a frame around life. But the picture remains the same no matter what."

"You admit that?" I ask, surprised.

"Absolutely!" He nods: "Everything in life that is important to me is about studying the things that _are_. Not the things imagined or thought. But in truth, they sometimes overlap no matter how hard I try to separate them. It's not always easy to study nature without wondering about its origin."

"Here is a thought..." I begin and his blue gaze is calm as he looks at me. "What if I posited that there was no God? No gods. Nothing of higher power. Or if there is, they are as remote and disinterested as the darkness between the stars and whatever goes on here means nothing to them."

"...We'll all find out, sooner or later, won't we?" A smile lurks in the corner of his mouth. "I think belief and philosophy serve the same purpose for most people. A creed, that lets you know what's right and wrong. Whether the powers and thoughts have any actual merit or existence might be secondary. The existence of God can both be proved by men of faith and disproved by men of logic."

"Which of those would you bet on?" I ask him and he laughs: "Neither! I doubt there is a finish-line on this side of life."

"And if I held you at gun-point? What would you answer then?"

"That there is a God, of course." he says smartly: "Because if there is, I'd die a martyr and if there isn't... It would turn out to be rather unimportant." he shrugs.

"You are not what I expected!" I tell him and receive one of those evaluating looks that make me feel like he is appraising me, weighing me for some unknown purpose. "Damn you! I wish you'd stop doing that!" I burst out, sounding harsher than intended.

He gives me a small, puzzled grin instead of asking; annoyingly aware that I'm not angry.

"Those perpetual stares of yours!" I snap.

"Apologies, Your Grace." he says and keeps looking. "But you are hard to look away from. ...I'm trained as a painter, after all."

"And what business has a painter evaluating a translation of Plato... Or knowing Greek in the first place!" I snap.

"The same as a Cardinal has taking his leave of the Church to command his armies." he says softly, holding my gaze, searching me, gauging my reaction.

There is so much challenge in this statement! Had this remark come from anyone else, I would have slain him on the spot and felt perfectly justified. But though my hands become fists and my lips press together, I find that I'm unable to argue. There is nothing I can say. He smiles at me, the tiny smile in the corner of his mouth. There is no triumph or gloating in his face.

Then he just nods and it's impossible to know what he's thinking as he gathers the work-papers, pushed aside after our meal, and stands up. I do the same, closing the gap between us so that we are physically closer than we have ever been. He doesn't move or lower his eyes. He simply holds my gaze and waits for my reaction.

"You are not afraid of anything, are you? A pity you are not a soldier." I finally say.

"I'm afraid of many things." he tells me softly and the closeness between us suddenly changes character, though I'm not sure how or why. "And I don't really believe that you measure all affairs with others in terms of how much you can intimidate them."

He lifts his hand, slowly, and gently brushes his thumb over my lips, his fingers touching my cheek. I almost gasp. Then his touch is gone and he gives me a small smile: "If I don't die tonight from sudden blade-poisoning for my impertinence, I suppose I'll see you tomorrow, Your Grace." He nods at me and turns to leave, closing the door behind him.

I stand rooted to the spot. My mind is stunned and silent.

I don't know how long I remain like this.

Alone.

His touch lingers on my lips like pain or delight and I'm furious at myself for wavering like this. I'm furious at the way my body reacts to the memory of the sudden, unbidden intimacy. I'm furious at him for his presumptuousness.

I feel like running to him and stabbing him. He practically told me that he expected me to do that.

I feel like running to him to feel his finger on my lips again.

When I realise that, the spell holding me immobilised breaks and I pick up the glass carafe and furiously throw it at a wall and start pacing. He meant nothing by it. He was only teasing. I ought to strangle him! It was a strange game I can't fathom. It was a lover's touch. Gentle. Soft. Caring. Intoxicating. Enthralling. Full of promise.

I'm on my way out of the door, my hand on my dagger. I will kill him.

And then I suddenly find my feet taking me to the stables instead and soon I'm riding through the darkness and the snow.

Shivering. The cold biting me. The horse protesting at a hard ride in the stormy darkness.

I know there is a chance of the beast stumbling. Of losing my way. It's a foolish exercise and I welcome the danger. My breath is fast and here, in the darkness, I can believe that it's because of the wind and the risk I'm taking.

I finally calm down a little, enough to make my way back. My body is cold and I have no idea how long I've been out. My thoughts are still clouded and questioning.

When I'm finally back inside the walls I make my way to my bedroom, willing myself to be exhausted. I throw my snow-cold cloak and jacket aside and sit down. It's warm and quiet here. I pull my boots and socks off, stretching my bare feet towards the fire; shake the last, stubborn snow from my hair.

Finally a bit of calm comes over me, and then my hand comes to rest on the dagger in my belt. As I stare at the flames I realise that whatever has to happen must happen now. I will not meet him tomorrow pretending I'm untouched.

I have to make him pay. Make him feel what he did to me. That he doesn't have the right.

There are guards around the keep and I bark at them to seal the small corridor where his room is, off. To let nobody in. Not servants, not messengers, not bloody Jesus Christ if he should drop by.

I hesitate at his door. It's quiet all around me now. Nobody is near. I wonder if he is awake and my hand rests on cool stone as if I could somehow feel his presence through the wall and divine his intentions. My bare feet are icy on the floor but my lips are warm where he touched me.

I want to fling the door open and let rage take over. But I quietly push the handle down and enter the chamber. He lies in bed, asleep. Curled up on his side, his back against the wall, looking small under the large blanket. A lonely night-light shines; the flame steady behind the window of the lantern. I stand there and look at him. At the hand under his chin, the hair falling into his face, the curve of the muscle of his shoulder, bared by the shirt he sleeps in.

He stirs suddenly. As though he senses me. His eyes open.

And there it is. His fear! He doesn't move at all but his eyes seem almost black in the candlelight. And then the fear vanishes, and I ask myself if it was ever there. The almost-smile lurks in the corner of his mouth and he slowly stretches his hand forward to where the blanket covers the bed close to me and pulls a corner of the dark fabric aside.

It's an invitation, though he makes it as attentively as one would to a viper that might suddenly strike, withdrawing his hand again and holding my gaze alertly. I haven't been certain, and I haven't dared admit to myself that it is lust, even need, and not fury I feel. I need him close to me. I need him!

I quickly undress. There is no point trying to hide my arousal as I throw my clothes to the floor and pull the blanket aside to lie down next to him. He says nothing. Just watches me, lips slightly parted, fire in his eyes. His hand traces over my side as he pulls the blanket over us both. We are laying closely together, the heat from his body warming me.

We stay like this for a long while, just looking at each other, not speaking; feeling each other's quick breath. Then I kick the blanket off and half sitting I remove his shirt, taking in his nakedness. He still doesn't move or speak but his eyes play over my skin. I reach out to touch him. Touch his side and chest and hips and legs. I don't remember any woman I have ever had being as warm as him, as good to feel.

My hand stops on his thigh. There is a scar there. A bullet wound. The projectile entered at the back of the leg, narrowly missing the sinew which would have crippled him. The bullet must have been embedded in his flesh, because a deep scar from an incision on the front of his leg tells of the bullet having to be pushed out. What kind of a painter gets himself shot, I wonder, intrigued. I say nothing, though. The silence between us enhances all my senses.

He still doesn't touch me. There is no doubt that he shares my arousal but he lets my hands explore unchallenged.

I let myself do this for as long as I can bear it. But soon my hands almost shake and I have to have him.

I haul him up; make him face the wall, on his knees before me, holding him close. He puts his hands on the stones, bracing us both as I slowly push into him, using spit to ease the process. When I finally have him as close as I possibly can, he leans his head back on my shoulder. I feel the fast breath in his chest as I hold him and his soft, wordless moans make my head spin. I grab his hips, pressing him towards me.

This is so wrong! So sinful! So forbidden!

I've never had anything as powerful and intense as this.

As my thrusts become quicker, I reach around him with one hand and stroke him. It is so foreign, feeling a man like this. Feeling him push his back against my chest in ecstasy as I touch him. I am close to the climax and I see the muscles of his arms tighten as he supports us against the wall, feel his body arch. He comes in my hand with a wordless cry, pressing violently against me and I let go of any semblance of control, let myself be swept away by the pleasure, climaxing inside him, holding on to him tightly.

We stay like this, panting, sweaty, pressing against each other until our breaths are calmed down. When I finally withdraw and we fall down on the bed, he turns to face me. I expect him to say something or touch me but he doesn't.

He just gives me a satisfied smile and I grin at him. I ought to leave, but I know I won't. Instead, I pull the blanket over us. The silence is so sweet, I realise. All the women I have had, all the little minxes I have taken who mistook lust for love or was courting a favour, have all, without exception, been chatting like their life depended on it. Even my sister; begging to be told that she's beautiful.

This is different.

He finally moves, puts a hand on my shoulder. Pushes me over on my back and leans in over me, brushing his lips against mine. My eyes close, this touch is unexpected, delightful. Before I know it, I find my arms around him, pressing his mouth to mine in the warmest kiss I have ever experienced.

The world is full of things you can crave, and take, and conquer. But some things, I realise, have to be given.

_Next Chapter - Sleep_


	4. Chapter 4 - Sleep

******_The Painter and the Warlord - By Liva Wilborg_**

**Sleep**

I think I have seen him asleep fewer than five times. When I close my eyes at night he is touching me, caressing my skin, gently running his fingers through my hair. When I wake up at dawn I often find him working, scribbling in the candlelight. When he sees that I'm awake, he closes the notebooks and folds the papers up; comes back to bed and lets me warm him.

I awake suddenly. Listening intently. I don't know what tore me from my slumber, but everything is quiet. It must be night still. There is no sound of morning activity coming from the keep. Everything is peaceful and noiseless. Until a gust of wind outside suddenly rattles the shutters and I reason that this must be what woke me.

The darkness of my room is tenuously kept at bay by the last flickering light of the night-candle, the flame struggling to survive in a pool of melted wax. The more it struggles, the more wax it melts, heralding its own doom.

When I turn my head, Leonardo is sleeping. Such a rare treat. He is so still. His chest hardly rises and falls, his breath so quiet. There is a boyish thing to him when he is far away in sleep, a childish peace. He likes to curl up, resting his head in his hand, his lips parting slightly, sweetly, appetizing.

My hand reaches out; I feel the warmth of his skin under my fingers.

It's the middle of February. Even though it's been two months since our first passionate tryst, he is even more intoxicating to me now than he has ever been. I have never felt like this about anyone and I curse him for being a man, for being brilliant, for being bound to leave as soon as the project has finished; for being an enemy. Of my father. Of the Order.

I knew from the start that he was known to associate with the assassin. It seems he is on the fringe of that world; the world of the lawless, anarchic murderer. I doubt if he is in any way knowledgeable about the workings of their cult. His distaste for violence is too intense for me to believe he could harm anyone, much less kill. The man would rather starve than enjoy a good roast; sticking instead to his bread and boring vegetables.

I had a man executed just after Christmas. My Captain of the city guard; the man in charge of keeping the newly conquered populace of Imola subdued and obedient.

I had instructed him to be cruel, unforgiving, to clean up the mess in the city. He did. Spared no one. When the terror became too much after five months of the onslaught, the populace began grumbling loudly, threatening insurrection.

I had the man killed to show them that I would never have let them suffer if I had known how harsh he was. I love executions. I had to have his tongue cut out beforehand, of course. I'd hate for him to embarrass me with any details about his orders before he died.

Leonardo was there; squirming and pale. He couldn't reasonably get away; I had made sure of that by stressing to him the necessity of keeping my good people visible at such an event, to show the populace that I had faith in my other men.

I kept a sideways glance on him instead of watching the death-show; his jaw clenched and his fingers curled around the armrest of the chair until the knuckles were white. He lowered his eyes, flinching at the sound of the axe falling. This softness is puzzling, annoying and somehow quite appealing. Though how weakness can be appealing, especially in a man, I can't fathom. I had a violent urge to taste his lips and feel his body under me and had to restrain myself from reaching out to touch him.

The expendable Captain was a criminal. Granted, he was a criminal because I had told him to be. But why was that not enough? Did he feel sorry for the man? The people cheered as their tormentor's blood spilled forth in sticky, plentiful gushes. And they cheered at me for taking their grievances seriously.

After it was done, Leonardo managed to get away from me somehow. I found him later, at the top of the tower of the keep, studying the land in the icy wind, sketching the layout with fingers that shook with the cold. All he said was: 'I have no stomach for politics.'.

I had to be very gentle with him that night just to get him to join me for dinner.

He is not a killer. He has no problem cutting corpses up, or so I'm told, but watching life flit away is horrendous to him. Why, then, is he the friend of a murderer?

My father sent me a letter. It arrived the day before Christmas. He congratulated me on a prudent move in hiring a close associate of the assassin under false pretences, and demanded to know when I'd begin extracting information from him? Or if I thought he was a dear enough friend of the assassin to be worth trading?

I haven't answered my father except to tell him that my machinery will be done in time and that the army is ready to move on the first day of spring.

If I didn't believe my... my lover incapable of plotting with murder in mind, I might just as soon have believed that he was playing me. Him coming to me, sending me the map in the first place, making certain I would be too enthralled by the workings of his mind not to call for him. I sometimes think I'm a fool for believing him above that treachery. Especially when I wake and find him working. As though he doesn't trust me enough to let sleep claim him in my presence.

I have trouble watching him sleep for very long. I have to taste him with the tip of my tongue. Kiss the warm pulse in his neck. Feel his lips. My hand comes to rest on his hip under the blanket and I move closer, slowly, so as not to wake him, and look at him in the dancing half-light. I want to kiss him, but I restrain myself. I have one of those rare opportunities now to try to find out what he is hiding. Why he won't give in and sleep in my presence.

I want him to stay with me. Why is it that nobody would object to me keeping a mistress, probably not even my faraway wife, but I can't keep a man?

And why the hell does it have to be him! The most troublesome man I could have possibly found.

Damn that assassin! If not for him, I could have kept my engineer. My father would never have bothered knowing about him.

It can't go on forever. I will have to ask him at some point. I have to raise the question with him. I have to be the one to watch _him_ for once, until he bares his soul and tells me what he knows of Ezio Auditore. But when I do, there will be no turning back. I won't deal with that now. Not yet.

I'm not done watching him sleep. I'm not done with him.

_Next Chapter - Window_


	5. Chapter 5 - Window

******_The Painter and the Warlord - By Liva Wilborg_**

**Window**

I persuaded him to stay with me, at least until mid April. We share our birthday. I wish to celebrate it with him. He was hesitant about joining the campaign, protesting that he'd be useless on a battlefield. He's probably right. If he doesn't have a soldier's heart, he won't take pleasure in the fighting and that does, indeed, make him useless.

He has been out riding. I see him, sitting on his horse, looking down on the small group of soldiers near him on the edge of the field we are camped on. He is staring. They are working hard in the late afternoon sun to erect the tents and place munitions and supplies where they should be, getting cooking fires going, tending to their gear. Most of them are older, seasoned, but the spring is in its infancy and though the discipline is strict, the routines are still somewhat lacking.

A few days from now, setting up and breaking camp will be much faster. It always is. This is the first day of the campaign as we march from conquered Imola to Forlí. I will have the city and when I do, I will tear the walls of the fort down. Walls are too easily used against you. There will be opportunities for distractions on the way... It'll be a good way to keep the soldiers sharp and the plunder is always a welcome addition to the supplies.

I put the spurs to the horse's flanks and quickly ride up to Leonardo. I'm close and yet he doesn't see me. He still stares at the group working.

It's one of these absorbing, azure gazes of his, though his face betrays no emotion. Looking to the group of soldiers, I spot a young man; handsome, agile, coal-black curls and dark eyes.

I try to read his expression as he stares, his keen eyes following the young man. He suddenly awakens as from a deep reverie and looks back at me. Sends me a look that means he knows what I'm thinking, that he has read the jealousy in my eyes. He gives a small, surreptitious shake of his head. It's almost a warning.

"You! Come here!" I shout at the group, pointing at the damned youth. They all snap to attention, bow their heads respectfully, and the young man averts his gaze as he stands before me. He bows and asks what he can do for me?

"Nothing." I tell him: "But I'm certain my Chief Engineer would like a word with you."

"Yes, Maestro?" The youth bow to him. Leonardo doesn't see it, though. He is looking at me. I can't interpret the look. He's not angry. If he is innocent, shouldn't he be angry?

"You are all doing a fine job." he finally says, his tone even, and he reaches for his belt and produces a couple of coins which he throws on the ground before the young soldier. It's not a lot, considering what I'm paying him, but it's a generous addition on a soldier's wage.

"Carry on." he says and gestures to the group. The money is picked up, and there is cheering behind us as we ride off.

He doesn't turn to look at me; calmly steers his horse towards a rocky, sun-touched hill overlooking the field my army is camped on.

I follow until we are safely out of earshot. "Damn you!" I finally explode. "Look at me! Now!"

"What is it, Your Grace?" he asks, turning to meet my eyes. He is calm. Stabbably calm. Why can I never ruffle his perfect feathers? He sometimes makes me feel like punching him until my knuckles are slippery with his blood.

"I wish I could say that I've lost you, but that would imply that I ever had you. At least I'm _deliberately_ untrustworthy... With you it's just your nature." I shout.

"Those are harsh accusations." he says softly, his eyes searching my face.

"I'm aware of that." I sneer.

"Do you believe I wish to have sex with the young man?" he asks, as we approach the hill and the horses begin the climb up the slope, almost shoulder to shoulder.

"Don't you?" I demand.

"Do you believe I have already lain with him?"

"Can you answer a question without posing a new one?" I snap.

He gives a laugh. "I can try." comes the answer.

"Do you find him attractive?"

"Yes. He was a beautiful young man. But-" he holds up a hand, stopping me before I reply. "...But that isn't the same as having had sex with him. Or even as having a desire to." he tells me, and there is something arrogant about his demeanour as though he's explaining something obvious to someone stupid.

"You're a liar." I tell him bitterly.

He turns in the saddle to look at me. "No. Not in this case, at least."

We have reached the top of the hill. A small grove of gnarled trees hanging on to the rocky hillside hides us from view from below.

"In what other cases are you a liar, then?" I demand.

He dismounts, patting the horse's neck before tying the reins to a tree; then he takes the large notebook from the saddlebag, the one with the loose papers stuffed into the bindings. I often see him carrying it around; they seem close companions, he and it.

"Well?" I ask irritably, dismounting too, securing the reins of the horse.

He makes a curious little shrug and walks to the edge of the cliff, closing his eyes as he turns his face towards the sharp sun: "I often lie about my age if I think I can get away with it..." he finally says: "And I lie faster than a racing horse if a client is pestering me about when the job will be done, if it's something I agreed to do but lost interest in." He opens one eye and half turns his head to look at me. There is a smile breaking forth on his lips. "I even sometimes lie about my contacts, like Peter denying Christ. Except... I don't return to meet my doom about it afterwards."

He turns to face me. Shielding his eyes from the sun he looks at me thoughtfully. "Is that enough, Your Grace?"

I go to face him. Glancing down, I can see that the drop is fairly steep, even though the hill is not that high. But high enough to be extremely painful, if not fatal. He stands there, at the edge, defiant of the drop. Defiant of me, as if he delights in putting himself in danger because he suspects I won't harm him.

"I'd like to know exactly what Christ you have been denying and to whom." I tell him.

He looks at me, half-smiling, as if he is waiting for something. "Ask me." he finally says: "Let's get it over with."

"Do you know Ezio Auditore?" I ask.

"No!" he lies, smiling at me, and shrugs in mock disinterest: "Who would that be?"

It's untrue, of course. He knows I know.

"I'd like to show you something." he says, changing the subject. He sits down on the edge, one foot dangling over the side, the notebook rests on his thigh. I cross my arms. I don't want to play games with him. My jealousy is fading though; so I remind myself that he has probably been fucking every young man in camp already. And probably the assassin too. I'm not ready to let the bitterness go that quickly.

He looks up at me: "Cesare... Please." he says quietly.

I wish I could protest. But the only other options besides sitting down with him are harming him or riding off. I'm stuck playing the game. I sit down. The sun is warm on my back, and his face is lit up, the light making his eyes bluer than ever.

"What is it?" I ask irritably.

He opens the notebook a fraction and pulls out a few pieces of paper. He hands them to me, blank side up. I turn them over and suck in my breath; stare at the four drawings one by one.

"You can't keep these!" I state forcefully and meet his eyes.

"I know. I know that. It's why I'm giving them to you. Burn them if you wish."

"Burn them?" I look at the papers. They are pictures of me. Sleeping. Precise little lines of silver and coal on paper conspiring to be my exact likeness. Anyone who saw it would know the subject. Know who the man sleeping peacefully was. Easily guess how the artist came to see him sleeping naked beside him, a small smile on his lips.

"You should have never made these!" I tell him.

"I know. They are a couple of months old by now." he confesses.

"What!" I exclaim, horrified. "Anyone could have found them!"

"I take good care of that not happening. Please believe that. But I never should have done it anyway. But I'm showing them to you now, because I need you to understand something."

I look up from the pictures with difficulty. They draw me in. To see yourself sleeping is a strange and wondrous thing. Even more so because I imagine I can see how carefully drawn the lines are. As loving as his touch can be. "What... What do you need from me?" I finally ask, flustered, shaken out of course.

"I look at the world. That's all. I need you to understand that."

"That's all..." I find myself saying. Suddenly the anger returns: "Who else is in there!" I demand, pointing at the notebook.

He laughs: "Do you really want to know?"

"Give me that!" I hold out my hand and he hesitates a moment before giving me the book. I send him a scathing look and open it.

A few loose pages lie first. Notes cover the entire paper; his strange script leaning and dancing lopsidedly across the page. The first page of the book itself is a drawing of a lion. Small studies of details scatter around the edges; claws, eye, tip of the tail.

The figure of the beast itself is reposing, equal parts housecat and ferocious killer. I can see the muscles under the skin, the rough texture of the nose and somehow I know the beast just about to open its maw to yawn, the teeth enormous and sharp. It smugly pretends otherwise, though, and stays still in its paper prison.

The next page is a bird's wing. I touch the paper, my mind certain that my fingers will connect with the sleek smoothness of the feathers. Armies march across one page, horses tear across another at breakneck speed, men die in agony on a chaotic battlefield, spear-wielding angels descend from the heavens, a mother cradles her newborn in her arms, a young girl dances; her long, blond hair flying about her pretty face as she moves.

Some drawings are studies, surrounded by script; notes to himself it seems. Some are obviously drawn for fun and enjoyment. Cats stretch, hiss, play and jump and I can see him, in my mind's eye, smiling as he drew them.

I turn page after page, wonders of precision and imagination alike, watching impossible fables come to life, beauty and ugliness faithfully rendered.

Then I come to a blank page. I turn it. Disappointed. Only to find another blank page, and another. The book is almost full, but he has yet to reach the end. I finally close the notebook. It weighs heavily in my hands as I return it.

"So I'm just a study?" I ask him, feeling as important as a pebble in a roaring river. He has opened a window for me and let me look at his mind and I'm not certain I'm anything more to him than any of the other random things flitting across the pages.

He laughs softly. I stare at him, suddenly furious.

"Believe it or not; I haven't had sex with anything else in there." he says, smiling: "Neither have I followed any of them onto a battlefield I do not want to be near, just to avoid letting go. Even in spite of all the questions that can't be faced..."

"I should have never gone to you that night. It would have been easier." I tell him: "You would have left my service by now. I would have asked you to come back in the autumn to create some more machinery and that's it."

"But you did go. And I'm happy for it." He moves back from the edge, laying flat on the ground with the notebook as a pillow, stretching his lean body in the sun. He shields his face from the light as he turns his head to look at me.

I quickly scan the field below. Here on the edge I might be visible to someone.

Everyone seems to be doing what is prudent, and none of those closest to the hill are looking directly this way. I move away from the edge too and lie down next to him, securely out of sight. He is warm to the touch when I put a hand on his chest. He pulls me closer.

In a few weeks a lot of things will have to be decided.

I wish I could ignore his connection to the assassin. I wish I could ignore the possibility that he has held the apple in his hands. Now he is far too close and I will have to deal with this!

My father, His Holiness, Pope Weakness the First, still wants his revenge and I want to utilize my father's armies and resources. They are better spent in my hands than his anyway.

Leonardo's fingers caress the back of my neck. Then his hands tantalisingly sneak past my belt, his touch soft and enticing.

I will have to make a decision about him.

Just not yet.

His lips are too sweet.

5


End file.
